


Little Bird

by UncleSmeagol



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ASoIaF, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Romance, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-04-16 12:52:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4626000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UncleSmeagol/pseuds/UncleSmeagol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ASOIAF AU where Sandor and Sansa meet up in the Vale and blah blah we all know the story at this point.  (mostly) Follows the book canon, though the book and the show might start to strangely overlap eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Meh. This is just a bit of mildly shitty un(or barely)edited brain vomit to both vent some of my sansan obsession and give me something else to work on instead of what I actually need to do, because procrastination is an art I am slowly mastering. I've the barest of bones idea of what's going to happen, and there's likely to be some weird gaps and inconsistencies, as well as possible errors in regards to details about the asoiaf world (I haven't read all of it and only half-watched the show, paying attention to the good bits, so my knowledge is somewhat patchy). My main focus is less on the outside details and more on developing the relationship between these two and the outside events directly pertaining to them, so bear with anything that seems stupid or jarringly inappropriate for Westeros. 
> 
> Sandor is 29 and Sansa has just gone 18, for reference. In my head Sandor looks nothing like Rory McCann (and his bloody scars are on the correct side of his face) and Sansa looks exactly like she does in the show, but that's just my general imagining. 
> 
> Also, shitty-ass title that's only there because 'things need titles' apparently.
> 
> All prologue dialogue was taken straight from the Blackwater scene and belongs entirely to George R R Martin

‘Little bird. I knew you’d come.’ His words grated at his throat, and when the light from the fire flared up, filling the room with eerie light, he saw the fear in her eyes and felt a faint, brief stab of shame in his swirling and clouded mind.

‘If you scream, I’ll kill you,’ he couldn’t hold her like this, with his blood-stained hands clapped firmly on her mouth and arm, but he couldn’t have her alerting anyone. ‘Believe that.’ He let go of her mouth, and had another drink, his mind still reeling strangely and distantly, jumping from one thought to the next but always circling back to the same—fire, burning, scarring fire.

He looked down at her and her wide, scared eyes gleaming in the darkness. ‘Don’t you want to ask who’s winning the battle, little bird?’

‘Who?’ Her voice was only a whisper, a dutiful whisper.

He laughed at that, at her whisper, at the hilarity of winning. ‘I only know who’s lost. Me.’ He knew he shouldn’t drink more, but he did.

‘What have you lost?’ she asked him, her voice still soft.

‘All. Blood dwarf. Should have killed him. Years ago.’

‘He’s dead, they say.’

‘Dead? No. Bugger that. I don’t want him dead.’ Bloody wineskin, empty now. He threw it aside. ‘I want him burned. If the gods are good, they’ll burn him, but I won’t be here to see. I’m going.’ And the gods weren’t good, he knew that all too well.

‘Going?’ She tried to free herself where his hand was still clamped on her arm, but he didn’t want to let her escape.

‘The little bird repeats whatever she hears. Going, yes.’ _Come with me, you stupid little bird. Come away from the fire._

‘Where will you go?’

As if that bloody mattered. ‘Away from here. Away from the fires. Go out the Iron Gate, I suppose. North somewhere, anywhere.’

‘You won’t get out,’ she said. ‘The queen’s closed up Maegor’s Keep, and the city gates are shut as well.’

‘Not to me. I have a white cloak. And I have this.’ He touched his sword. ‘The man who tries to stop me is a dead man. Unless he’s on fire,’ he added with a laugh.

‘Why did you come here?’

‘You promised me a song, little bird. Have you forgotten?’ His mind was swirling even more from the wine now, and he hardly knew what he said. He remembered her promise, and distantly remembered why he’d come, but he knew most of all her wanted her song.

‘I can’t,’ she said, and if his mind had not been so clouded with wine he would have seen the fear swelling up in her eyes again. ‘Let me go, you’re scaring me.’

‘Everything scares you. Look at me.’ He pulled her closer, to shock her face towards his. ‘Look at me!’

She looked at him, and the light flared up again so she could see the blood spattered across his face, both camouflaging and accentuating his ruined mass of scars. He knew that she saw him, and he knew without a mirror how horrifying he looked; he’d seen it in the eyes of the world for most of his life.

‘I could keep you safe,’ he blurted, desperately, trying to make her forget his face even as he forced her to look upon him. ‘They’re all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them.’ He pulled her even closer, and in his wild racing thoughts he fancied for half a moment that he might kiss her, that she might not mind. Then she closed her eyes and his anger flared.

‘Still can’t bear to look, can you?’ He pushed her back on to the bed, climbing over her and drawing his knife to put to her white little throat. ‘Sing, little bird,’ he rasped, harsh and cruel. ‘Sing for your little life.’

For a long moment, there was nothing but darkness and the flashing of fire and the sounds of the battle, and the Hound saw nothing but his own rage. And then her voice began to sing, weak and wavering, but still sweet.

 _‘Gentle Mother, font of mercy,_  
_Save our sons from war, we pray,_  
_Stay the swords and stay the arrows,_  
_Let them know a better day._  
_Gentle mother, strength of women,_  
_Help our daughters through this fray_  
_Soothe the wrath and tame the fury,_  
_Teach us all a kinder way.’_

He voice faded on the final word, and she lay there quiet and trembling beneath his grasp, and the confusion of his mind suddenly settled on something he could not identify, and he took the blade away from her, feeling above all great shame. He felt something building in his throat, and wetness seeping from his eyes, and the girl lifted her hand to his face and took his terrible ruined cheek into her hand.

‘Little bird,’ he whispered, broken, and immensely weary. He knew suddenly that he should not be here, he should not lie on top of the little bird, and he stood up, tangling himself in his cloak, and in a burst of frustration he ripped it off as he left, stalking out of the room and slamming the door behind him.

He was a disgusting old dog, he told himself over and over as he stalked down to the stables to Stranger. She was wise to be afraid of him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of an abrupt start, but I'm not so much concerned with finesse as I am with just getting things going.

He felt strangely at a loss of what to do, now that the wolf-bitch had left him. He felt cheated, of course, of his money—for now he certainly had no means of crossing the narrow sea—but most of all he felt robbed of a purpose, of the direction the Stark girl had given him. Now he felt as adrift as a rudderless boat at sea.

And then, as he sat alone at his table in the inn downing another cup of watery wine, he saw her, not the little wolf-girl Stark, the other one, the little bird, his mind seemed to freeze and snap at the same time and he could only gape at her with his mouth open like a fool and wonder distantly if this was a vision, if at last his love of wine had driven him to pure madness.

But it had not, he knew that, and he could see her clear as day as she timidly went forward and bought herself a room. Her hood was drawn up over her face, but her cloak was too small; a child’s cloak, it seemed, not one fitting for a tall woman, and did not cover her face well, and he would have known that face anywhere. He’s seem it enough, in his dreams, and in his thoughts over and over again since the day he’d left her all those months ago.

She was alone. He’d assumed instinctively, at first, that she had an escort of at least two men, but as she ordered a meal and looked around shakily for somewhere to sit that did not contain a leering man, he realised she was alone, and with a suddenly urge of desperation he stood up, knocking the table a little and drawing her glance towards him. Her eyes widened as she recognised him, and after a moment of hesitation she walked towards him and sat down across from him, pulling back her hood.

‘What happened to your hair?’ He blurted—hardly the best thing to say, after all that had happened since they’d last seen each other, but her hair was no longer that beguiling rich auburn; it was a dark brown confined to a long braid.

She looked around furtively. ‘I dyed it. I did not want to make myself recognisable. It would not be good for someone to notice who I am.’

He laughed at that. ‘If you’re travelling alone, it hardly matters whether or not a man recognises you; he’ll rape you all the same.’

‘I had little choice.’

‘Well, you won’t last.’ It was a terrible thing to say, and he regretted it when the look of dismay and fear crossed over her face. He wished that he could greet her properly, perhaps start over after the Blackwater, offer to take her with him again, anywhere. ‘I could be your companion,’ he said clumsily, suddenly, with no preface. ‘I could keep you safe, as an unimportant country wench or as a lady, it doesn’t matter. If anyone hurt you I’d kill them.’

She looked up at him, a little longer than before, and he grinned sourly to himself at the thought that it would take some time for her to get used to his face again. ‘Where—where are you going?’

She was so bloody hesitant, the little bird, and weak; she wouldn’t last a day by herself. He was surprised she’d made it this far, wherever she’d come from, for whatever bloody reason she was here in this obscure inn in the Vale.

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Anywhere. North, could be.’

She was looking down at her hands, fiddling with the fraying end of her sleeve. It wasn’t like before, at the battle, when she thought Stannis would win and she would be freed and sent to her family, and he knew it. Now she was alone, and she had no leverage or security, and trusting him was her only true chance at survival.

‘We’ll go north, then,’ she said at last, looking up at him again with those blue eyes and he nodded.

‘Whatever my lady demands,’ he said, with a mock bow.

It was strange, for one would have thought that after the year that had passed they would feel some need to speak, to close that gap of time between them, if only a little. But they were both silent, and while the strangeness of their reunion was felt keenly on both sides, they said nothing, and finished their meals in silence before going upstairs to the rooms. Sandor had not bought a room yet, so he followed Sansa into hers. It took her a moment to realise that he was there behind her, inside the small, shabby room, and she turned towards him in surprise.

‘You—you have no room?’

‘No use wasting gold, we’ve far to go and I don’t have much. And besides, I’d rather keep close to you. Too many men downstairs desperate for a blue-eyed wench.’

Her face fell a little, though she quickly tried to hide it, and he laughed. ‘Don’t worry, girl, I’ll sleep before the door like a dog.'

He saw that she wanted to say something in reply—politely reassure him, perhaps, that she had not been afraid about impropriety, or that of course he was not a dog; silly courtesies that she did not mean. Of course she was frightened of him, great drunken coarse-mannered brute he was, and they had not parted on excellent terms. How was she to know he would not climb on top of her again in a fit of drunken panic and hold a knife to her throat?

And indeed, how was he to know he would not? He had intended to return to the common room for more of their weak ale once the little bird had been settled, but as he looked at her nervously fiddling with her hair, trying to decide what to do to prepare herself for bed with him in the room, he realised with loathing that he could not be sure how much control he would have over himself. He scowled sourly and sank down to the floor, leaning against the door and stretching out his long legs before him.

‘Best get some sleep, girl,’ he rasped at the still-fiddling Sansa. ‘It’s early yet, but we’ll leave early in the morning.’

She nodded obediently, and took off her cloak, shaking out the dust towards the corner of the room before hanging it up on a rusty iron hook hanging from the wall. She put her sack right next to the head of the bed and then sat herself upon it, bending down to unlace her boots. Sandor watched her lazily, for it had been so long since he had seen her, and he missed her gentle beauty. She looked different now; still frightened, still wearing her lady’s armour, but older, and more tired and broken. He thought of what had broken her spirit further after he’d left: her marriage to the Imp, and then her time with that snake Petyr Baelish, and though he snarled viciously at the thought of her in the clutches of those men, he knew that had she taken up his offer at the Blackwater, like as not she’d carry that same weary, broken expression, except it would have been his hands who caused it, not theirs.

That was not a pleasant thought to lull himself to sleep with, so he looked back at the little bird as she tucked herself into the bed, and at the back of his mind he found himself vaguely disappointed that she had not undressed further, and that thought disgusted him.

‘Thank you,’ she said, suddenly, and he started a little to hear her voice interrupting his filthy thoughts. She was half-sitting, propped on her elbow, and looking at him seriously.

‘Don’t thank me, girl,’ he growled at her. ‘I haven’t done anything yet.’

‘Nevertheless, thank you.’ She leaned over to blow out the thick candle on the table by her bed, and the room was dark and still.


	3. Chapter 3

He awoke early, when the light was still fresh and grey, and for a moment he was confused and annoyed to find himself slumped on the floor, against a door, but then he looked over at the bed and saw the little bird sleeping in the bed and remembered, and thus found his discomfort of little importance. Slowly, quietly, he rose, stretching his stiff limbs and grimacing at the foul taste in his mouth. He looked upon her for a long moment, standing silently at the foot of the bed and taking in her sleeping form; softly curled up on one side, knees almost to her chest and the blankets clutched tightly around her shoulders, though it was not terribly cold in the room. Her hair was still braided, but it had become dishevelled over night; long wispy tendrils lying loosely over the blanket, draping themselves over her soft curves, sliding gently across her cheekbone and against her slightly parted lips.

Then he shook himself, scowling for staring at a sleeping girl, and kicked the end of the mattress, harder than he intended. She took a sharp intake of breath and her eyes started open, and she looked around in slight panic, her eyes widening when they fell upon her.

Not a pretty face to wake up to, his. He snarled. ‘Get up, girl. The sooner we leave this hellhole, the better. I’m going to get breakfast.’ He glanced over at the jug of water and cloth on the table, ignored last night by the both of them. ‘I imagine you’ll be wanting to clean yourself. Come downstairs when you’re done, and don’t dawdle.’

She nodded mutely, and he left the room. 

He ordered two breakfasts and sat sourly eating, feeling particularly ill-humoured as he always did so early in the morning. North, they’d agreed last night, but the North was a big place, and more filled with Freys and Boltons than either of them would have liked. But the south was just as treacherous, with Littlefinger ever lurking with his plots and schemes, and further south the Lannisters, wanting both of them for treason and regicide, and all across the country their spies and cronies. It was out of the frying pan and into the fire, no matter where they went or what they did. He briefly and abstractly considered leaving this whole damn mess behind and crossing the sea to Essos, but he knew they’d never have enough coin, not in these days, and besides, what would they do in Essos? He’d be alright, sure, but she wouldn’t, not the fine little Westerosi lady. And they weren’t free from their enemies there, either; sooner or later someone would try to hunt down the last Stark. And escaping to Essos seemed too predictable, the common course of action when wanting to erase the past and start a new life. There were probably spies in the free cities already, looking for either or them or both of them, and they’d stick out in Essos, no matter how long they stayed out in the sun, and anyhow he’d stick out anywhere regardless of anything. 

He hated that. He was the safest thing for the little bird; he wouldn’t hurt her and he’d die for her without a second thought, but he did draw attention. 

And suddenly she was right there, coming up behind him so light-footed that he started when she plopped down next to him, before the second plate. 

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ she said quietly, before daintily beginning to eat her food like she was at a banquet with a horde of lords and ladies to impress and not in the near-empty common room of a shoddy inn at the crack of dawn. He snorted a little at that, and drained the rest of his cup.

‘I was just thinking,’ he said. ‘Too deep in thought. Rare, that,’ he added, allowing himself a small grin at his own expense, and she looked a little confused, like she wasn’t sure she should be smiling at that or not, which only made his grin widen. Silly little bird, with her silly little manners.

‘I was thinking of where we should go,’ he continued. 

‘North, we said.’

‘Yes, girl, but the North’s bloody huge, and crawling with Boltons and Freys. It’s no safer than it is here.’

She straightened a little. ‘It’s bigger, emptier, and I have more friends in the North than I do here. My family’s bannermen can’t have all abandoned him.’

‘So what are you going to do? Go knocking at the doors of Umbers or Karstarks or whatever bloody houses you have there and hope that they’re on your side? Seems the quickest way to get killed, or taken as a pawn again, for different players. I thought you were done with that game.’

‘I am finished with that,’ she said, firmly. ‘But where else can I go? The North is the closest thing to home I have left.’

‘Doesn’t mean you should blindly rush into it.’

‘You said yesterday you would take me there, and you seemed to have no issue.’

I would have said anything to get you to come with me, little bird. ‘I said it was an option. And it is an option, like as not the best we’ve got.’

‘We could go to the Wall,’ she said, sounding a little unconvinced. ‘If Jon is even still there and alive.’ 

‘And what would you do there? The Wall is no place for a woman. The Wall is no place for anyone.’ He’d never been there, but he knew well enough that it was a foul rabble of the worst of men, some even worse than him, and the thought of her among them made his blood boil.

‘I know.’ She sighed. ‘And I don’t really want to go there. But where else can I go?’

‘I don’t know. Mayhap we can find a town, not too big, not too small, and stay there for a while. We’re a conspicuous pair, but we could find work and lay low for a bit. See what happens with the rest of this bloody war.’ 

Her eyes widened at this, and he could see that she had never so much considered it, and he couldn’t blame her, poor stupid highborn soul. She’d never considered having to work or live with the common folk, and why should she? She should be off in a castle with a beautiful prince and all the riches in the world, not stuck in an inn with a brute like him. 

There was, of course, a part of his mind, perhaps even a large, dominating part of his mind, that hoped that once they got to Bridgetown or whatever damn place they would quietly assimilate. He would build them a little cosy cottage and find some sort of work that needed his strength, and she would learn to cook and keep house, and before long she would come to his bed willingly, and they would spend the long winter nights together under a pile of furs, and she’d forget about her castle and her lands and her imaginary beautiful princes. 

He snorted at his foolishness. He was worse than her, with his fairy-tale dreams.

‘I suppose that might be a good plan,’ she said at last, when she had digested his new idea and realised the comparative sense in it. ‘I’ll keep dyeing my hair, you wear a cowl, and we can go to Bridgetown; it’s not very small but not very large, either, and far enough away from Winterfell and the Dreadfort. The North is a big place.’

‘You’ll have to learn not to act like a highborn, though,’ he said. ‘Forget those table manners and your fine speech. You can dye your hair all you want, but your manners are what’ll give you away, long before your appearance.’

She didn’t say anything to that, only nodded a little and looked down at her food. He wanted to push her further, but he let her be for now—there’d be time a plenty to unlearn her lady ways in the weeks on the road.

They left less than half an hour later, as the light grew stronger and the inn grew louder. He led the way on Stranger, and she followed close by on her sturdy little bay mare she’d picked up from gods knew where. He hadn’t asked how she came to be here, and she hadn’t told him, but whatever it was, she was a clever little bird for getting away with a horse and a few measly possessions, and as he threw back a glance at her stony little face looking out across the grey landscape, he couldn’t help but smile. She’d been broken since he left her—aye, beaten and torn and used by her luckless string of men, but she’d grown stronger, too. 

She was a fierce little bird after, all, he thought, as he led Stranger off the road, seeking more obscure and hidden trails. She’d put herself back together, he was sure of it, and he’d help her by killing any bastard who sought to tear her apart again. That, at least, he was good for.


End file.
